A Love That Lasted A Lifetime

RALPH DE LA CRUZ COMMENTARY

Lino met Olga at a New Year's Eve party in Matanzas, Cuba, almost 60 years ago.

Shortly after the party, at the urging of Olga's cousins -- who were returning to New York after fighting in World War II -- Lino moved to Manhattan to work.

The next year, on Dec. 15, 1946, Lino and Olga married in a Catholic church in Harlem.

It would become a familiar pattern for Lino and Olga, this mix of work and romance and moving freely between two cultures. Two years later, when Olga gave birth to their first child and lapsed into postpartum depression, they returned to Cuba to spend time with Olga's grandmother and mother. Lino found work at a textile plant and they stayed.

For me, Olga's grandmother, Adela, is an important part of this story. She was the kindly aunt who took in my father, his sister and brother when they were orphaned in 1932 by a hurricane that destroyed their home and killed their parents and two sisters. Olga and my father grew up together. And she is one of his few remaining family members.

So, when we moved here two years ago, my father asked us to get in touch with Lino and Olga, who live in a small apartment in the beach area.

They had arrived in South Florida in 1963, settling in Fort Lauderdale because Lino was working for a battery manufacturer here. But Lino wasn't one for lounging around. At nights, he also worked as a waiter at the Yankee Clipper, and then as bell captain at the Sheraton.

On days off, he cut hair and sold encyclopedias. For much of his adult life, the man simultaneously worked four jobs.

And yet, he always had an easy smile, was generous to a fault and asked for nothing in return.

Despite being an octogenarian, Lino eschewed the elevator at his apartment building. He preferred to run up and down the stairs.

So, I was surprised when a neighbor told me, "Six months ago, that man was about to die."

It turned out Lino had slugged it out with cancer and chemotherapy. And won.

Unfortunately, that was just one tragedy their fairy-tale romance had to endure.

In 1991, their oldest son, also named Lino, inexplicably died at 41 of a heart attack.

And then, in 1996, the day after their 50th wedding anniversary, Olga woke up feeling sick. It turned out she had a brain hemorrhage. She fell into a coma that lasted 12 days.

Lino never left her bedside, continuously speaking and playing music to her.

For her part, Olga simply remembered it as a long dream. She recalled being in a very bright room with her dead parents and son, Lino. But when she approached them, each turned away. Finally, seeing a brilliantly lit man, she approached him, asking why they wouldn't speak to her.

The man silently turned toward a door, as if directing her to it. Approaching the door, she suddenly heard Lino's voice.

"Happy birthday, Mamita."

She opened her eyes. It was Lino. And it was, indeed, Dec. 30. Her birthday.

Two days later, she was out of the hospital. To the surprise of her therapist, she got home and began playing the piano as if nothing had happened.

A little over a month ago, I got a call that Lino was in the hospital. His heart was not working well, and that was leading to kidney problems.

When I saw Olga at the hospital, she had been there for days and looked exhausted. So I offered to stay for a few hours while she got some rest.

"He never left me when I was in the hospital. And I'm not going to leave him now," she said.

Lino was released from the hospital and began dialysis. But after his first session on Sept. 11, he felt short of breath and had to be re-admitted.

That night, he told Olga and their daughter he couldn't take the pain anymore.

"Sorry, Mamita," he said. "I have to go."

At 6:30 the next morning, Lino was gone.

Now it's just Olga.

Hard for me to say one name without the other.

Ralph De La Cruz can be reached at rdelacruz@sun-sentinel.com or 954-356-4727.